Christmas With the Roarks
by Emilie Rose
Summary: A Christmas story based on Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead. A one-shot look into the semi-normal lives of Mr. and Mrs. Howard Roark.


**Hi there! Okay, before people read this, I have to set some ground rules.**

**1- Yes, I understand that this is absurd and out of character, but I'm kinda poking fun at Howard Roark. I tried to keep the characters as realistic as possible, assuming they entered into a situation that they never really would.**

**2- No, I am not insulting Ayn Rand (well, she might have taken it that way, but it was not my goal.) I'm just having fun. I have no problem with Roark and I think Dominique is amazing. But Ayn needs to let her hair down (though she chopped it sort of short to do that) and let people play with her little ideal couple!**

**3-Yes, I do understand Ms. Rand's philosophy and I have no problem with it whatsoever. I have a problem with how seriously she takes herself. I know this may come as a bit of a shock to my Objectivist readers, but she is not the center of the universe (gasp!) And no, I don't mean to offend you either. **

Dominique Francon had always loved this time of year. Walking down a crowded street on a December evening filled her with an electric feeling of excitement. The smell of the cold air, the constant laughter and ringing of bells punctuating the sounds of a bustling city, and the colorful lights strung from shop windows and lampposts made her feel like some part of a larger community that was, for once, on her side.

In her mind, she knew that this was ridiculous, that people were mindless fools playing a pointless game to reach something they could not even define. But her spirits could not help lifting, despite the cold truth.

Perhaps it was something in her childhood that caused such irrational joy. Looking back, she could actually remember happy Christmas mornings, sitting under her family's enormous tree, which was always beautifully adorned with candles and shining ornaments. She recalled staring over heaps of brown paper and expensive presents at her smiling father who, in this memory, still doted on his lovely little girl.

It was the thought of these times that caused Dominique to enjoy the holidays, though she neither expected nor desired such family gatherings to occur again.

Now, Dominique Roark walked down a brightly lit city street, smiling slightly as snowflakes fell from a dark sky. She watched as happy couples hurried to and fro, for once not considering the type of people they were or the foolish things for which they stood.

Turning on to a side street glistening with snow, Dominique stepped through the door of a small florist shop. She stayed motionless on the doormat long after the little bell on the entrance door stopped jingling.

Dominique knew that her marriage to Howard Roark had been a sort of victory for both of them; a victory against the mediocre future the world expected of them. She was overjoyed that she could live with this man whom she adored, relieved that she now shared her life with someone who understood the things she believed.

But Dominique was fond of a very few mundane customs of the general population. She had tried to integrate them into her life with Roark to no avail. He did not understand what Dominique saw in things like Christmas. They were not Christians, so why should they care about what he considered to be someone else's holiday?

When situations like this arose, Dominique worked to show Roark why she had chosen not to reject a certain piece of the mindless culture in which they did not belong. He could never believe that Dominique would adopt a custom simply because it was something that people do. Because of this faith in her, he usually let her do what she wished, despite his inability to understand her views.

The couple lived in a house on the outskirts of New York City, far from any neighbors. The house which Roark had built for them was a reflection of the strength and passion of their relationship, brought to life in glass and steel.

When Dominique looked at the house, she saw her life. She saw the struggles she had overcome, the weak minds against which she had fought. She saw the day that Howard Roark came into her world, showing her that man could reach the greatness of which she had always dreamed. Lastly, she saw her future; a life with Roark, away from the foolish mind games of this world. This was where she belonged; in a house that society had dubbed hideous with a man whom society had branded mad.

This was not the sort of house whose windows would ever reveal a shimmering Christmas tree, of this, Dominique was fully aware. But a wreath on the front door did not seem like too much to ask.

Stepping further into the florist shop, Dominique ran her eyes along the back wall, on which hung dozens of beautiful evergreen wreaths. She chose a relatively simple one, adorned with nothing but one large crimson ribbon.

After paying, she returned to the street, which was now covered in a coating of snow, and hailed a cab.

By the time the taxi pulled up in front of Dominique's house, the snow was falling rapidly. She hurried through the inch or so of icy powder on the front walk and entered the undecorated door, placing the wreath under a hedge before entering.

She stood in the warm foyer of the house, stamping the snow off her boots. As she crouched to untie the damp laces, she heard the sound of someone approaching. Looking up, she saw Roark standing before her, his hands in his pockets, a half-smile on the face that Dominique loved so dearly.

She watched, unmoving, as he approached her silently and knelt before her. Reaching out his beautiful, long-fingered hand, he brushed a few strands of her silky golden hair behind her ear,

"You're late," he stated calmly.

"It's snowing," she replied.

Grasping her forearms with the same perfect hands, so delicate, yet so powerful, he stood, bringing her upwards with him.

They stood facing each other, their noses nearly touching, their lips but an inch apart.

"I waited supper," Roark announced suddenly, breaking the silence. "We should eat before it gets cold."

Dominique nodded.

They told each other of the day's events as they ate. Dominique listened in joyful silence while Roark explained the site where he would soon begin building a home for an eccentric millionaire. He had already started the sketches, he told her, and would show her after supper.

When he asked her what had kept her so late, she simply blamed the snow. It was not yet time, she thought, to discuss the wreath.

Nearly two hours later found them seated together on a low sofa in front of a large fireplace. The blazing fire within it was the only source of light in the room. Dominique watched the flickering orange flames cast shadows on Roark's face.

This was when he looked the happiest. Sitting beside him in perfect silence in this house which he had built for them, she could feel the power of the peace that radiated from him.

"It's nearly Christmas." The words were out of Dominique's mouth before she realized what she was saying or had time to stop herself.

Roark blinked and looked at her, clearly confused by this statement. He finally replied with a simple, "Yes," and returned to watching the fire.

Dominique knew that her chance was now. She had opened the door to this conversation and had no choice now but to enter into it.

"I thought it would be festive if we decorated a bit. Perhaps a wreath on the door?"

Roark looked at her blankly. This was the reaction that Dominique had expected, this utter lack of understanding. "Why?"

"I don't know," Dominique replied. She was unsure how to put into words the joy she felt in relation to a holiday that celebrated something in which she did not believe. "It is cheerful. I suppose it is part of a memory."

"A memory?"

She explained to Roark how Christmas had always represented a happy time in her otherwise somewhat cold youth. Though he had no such experiences to compare with Dominique's feelings, Roark understood at least part of what she described.

"But that is no longer your life," he added. "It was a good thing then, but now you are here."

"I know. And yet a new life does not necessarily mean that everything old must be dismissed."

Roark thought about that for a moment, his eyes leaving Dominique's beautiful face and returning to the still-burning fire.

"I've never celebrated Christmas. Perhaps it would be interesting to try."

The wreath went up on the door the next morning and stayed there for the ten days remaining before December 25th. A thin coating of snow that replenished itself each time it began to melt added to the fairy tale appearance of the Roarks' private paradise.

No architect's office held hours on Christmas Eve, so Roark stayed at home despite his disinterest in the holiday, sketching a new skyscraper.

Dominique, however, had found herself a job writing for another newspaper and had some work that she needed to finish. Thus she left her safe haven to travel into the city and surround herself with creatures she could never hope to understand.

Today, however, she was not as terribly infuriated by the sheep as she normally was, for the mood of the day made them less obnoxious and her more forgiving.

When Dominique returned home that night, the tinkling sound of the Salvation Army bell still ringing in her ear, she smiled at the sight of her evergreen wreath hanging on the door.

The moment Dominique entered her sanctuary, she smelled Christmas. Something within the house was emitting an odor that distinctly reminded her of Christmas at home with her family.

Roark entered the foyer to find Dominique standing just inside, the snow on her boots leaving a puddle on the floor, trying to place the scent.

"You were late again," he said, breaking her reverie.

"Yes. The snow was slowing everything down again." She hesitated a moment, then asked, "What is that smell?"

Roark smiled, his face taking on that rare, but more common as of late, look of excited joy. "Come, I'll show you," he answered, his warm, strong hand extended toward her. Dominique quickly removed her boots, coat, and hat, then took his hand and followed.

Their rarely used dining room table was set with the good china and silver that Dominique's mother had given her. Long red candles provided the only light in the room. On the dark green tablecloth, a miniature feast had been laid out, complete with ham, potatoes, turnips, and green beans.

Dominique turned to stare at Roark, her mouth open, without the slightest idea what to say.

Roark smiled again and said simply, "You wanted to have Christmas. I believe this is what most people do on Christmas Eve."

As they ate their Christmas dinner, Dominique thought about her wonderful life with Roark and how, despite their vastly different views compared to those of society, they lived just as any happily married couple should. She turned to Roark and, cutting him off in the middle of a description of a highly complex staircase, said, "Merry Christmas."

He stopped, stared at her for a moment, then smiled, a knowing look on his face. "And I love you," he answered.

Dominique laughed.

****To my own personal Objectivist; see what you have done to my brain, you wicked boy!****

**Please review, even if you hate me!**


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